


Why The Caged Bird Sings

by pansexualfandommess (redvelvetrose), SincereJester



Series: Winter Is Here [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, Sandor - Freeform, Sandor Clegane Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 03:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redvelvetrose/pseuds/pansexualfandommess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincereJester/pseuds/SincereJester
Summary: Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark reunite after the Battle of Winterfell. Companion piece/sequel to The Curious Incident Of the Dog In the Night. Can be read as a oneshot.





	Why The Caged Bird Sings

  **Generously beta’d by penhales**

 

_A dog is loyal to and would fiercely defend those whom it loves. “For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.” Life is not always easy. At times you will have to be brave. At times you will be hurt. But a dog will never leave you. Stay close. Be faithful. Protect your pack._

_Love like a dog._

_That is my advice to you. Love like a dog.”_

― Oliver Tremble 

 ****  
****  
**** Sitting at the high table in the great hall of Winterfell, Sansa struggled to sort out her emotions following their narrow victory against the Army of the Dead. Of course she was overwhelmingly relieved that they had won, but she was also still dumbstruck by what they had lost. Theon Greyjoy. Lyanna Mormont. Jorah Mormont. Beric Dondarrion. Eddison Tollett. The increasingly boisterous nature of the feast was starting to grate on her nerves. In her head, she knew she should be celebrating along with them. She was alive. Her blood family was still alive. But what was missing weighed heavily on her. ** **  
****

Her gaze slid over to where Sandor Clegane sat, eating a bowl of stew and ignoring the various cheers and drinking games and toasts going on around him. A serving girl tried to slip behind him and he somewhat rudely relieved her of the pitcher of wine she’d carried. This brought a slight smile to Sansa’s lips, which she covered up by taking a sip from her own cup. That was very much in tune with her memories of him.

She swallowed tightly, watching him. He was still just as massive as she remembered, more than a head taller than her, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. His hair was a little longer, a bit past his chin, still worn so that it partially concealed his scars. He was not a classically handsome man like Ser Loras or even Ser Jamie, but something deep inside of her twisted with want as she watched him.  
The ginger-haired Wildling, Tormund, she thought his name was, sat by Sandor. He seemed a bit upset and she wondered what in the world possessed him to try and gain the unfriendly man’s sympathy. Sandor obviously wondered the same thing, shrugging him off with a growl. Luckily for the Wildling, two of the Northern girls sidled over, eager to relieve him of whatever problem he had. One went off with him, leaving the other to try her hand with Sandor.

A stab of jealousy shot up Sansa’s spine and she stood up, heading over with her shoulders squared and her head high, ready to send the girl packing. Before she even got there, the girl tried to take his arm, prompting Sandor to snarl at her. That was enough to send the poor thing scampering off in search of more amiable male company. Sansa’s jealousy cooled somewhat, though she wondered if she was about to receive a similar rebuff. Her heady dreams from the night prior were one thing. Reality might not be nearly so forgiving.

“She could have made you happy. At least for a little while,” she said in lieu of a more formal greeting, sitting in the seat that Gendry had vacated earlier.

Sandor looked up at her with surprise, straightening his back so he wasn’t leaning so heavily on the table.  
She was a vision, especially after that long, miserable night, but he was still too deep in thought to pull himself out of his own reverie. _Arya had the right idea_ , he thought. _I should have fucked off and drunk myself stupid, alone. I fucking hate crowds, especially crowds like these grinning cunts...  
_

"There's only one thing that will make me happy," he retorted, more angrily than he had intended.

"And what's that?" Sansa asked, not at all put out by the Hound's barking.

"That's my own fucking business," he answered sourly, holding her gaze. He was just as grizzled and worn as he had ever been, and he wasn't in the mood for company. He wished the wine would kick in, but he would have to drink a lot more for it to be effective. All he wanted was sleep; a long, dreamless sleep.

Sansa just sat opposite him, unflinching and unblinking, as if daring him to continue his black mood. She had changed --she wasn't that silly girl with a head full of romantic lies he had first known in Winterfell and later in King's Landing. She had grown up, lost much of her innocence. Yes, he recognized that look; he'd seen it on too many faces--men, women, and mostly his own. This Sansa was still just as noble, but she was cold. Cold and fierce. "Used to be you couldn't look at me," he remarked.

"That was a long time ago," she replied coolly. The tiniest of smiles twitched at her lips. "I've seen much worse than you since then."

So it had been true, what Arya had told him and what he had heard from others. Somehow that revelation only made him feel worse. "Yes, I've heard how you were broken in. Heard you were broken in rough," he added, leaning forward a bit. Perhaps the wine was beginning to take effect, but he had never been one for softening the truth with comforting words or sympathy. It was mean and petty of him to bring up the subject to her, he knew, but it felt like another of his failings. Why in the Seven Hells was everyone coming to him with their tales of lover's woes and painful memories? He wasn't a Septon or even a friend. He was tired, and wallowing in his perceived cowardice, and he didn't want to revisit the past, distant or recent, and certainly not with Sansa Stark.

She was calm and collected, face impassive, when she replied. "And he got what he deserved. I gave it to him."

Curiosity rose in him. She wanted to talk, so let her talk... "How?" he asked, raising his cup.

Her eyes twinkling with both ferocity and amusement. she simply said, "Hounds."

He gave a genuine laugh. That was the deep strength and cold ironic wit of the Starks, there. He suspected she was paying him a compliment somehow, and he was oddly touched. Her sudden warm smile at his laughter was a welcome sight, and showed she was just as strong as he suspected she would be. He lifted his cup to her. "You've changed, little bird," he remarked, rather admiring the brutality of her actions.

The smile faded from her face almost instantly, replaced with a sidelong stare as she drifted into memory. He had called her 'little bird' in King's Landing: a little songbird content to be captured and held in a gilded cage. He had been the king's dog, the Hound, vicious and hateful and terrifying, but her only shield from the cruelty of the royal court.

He was shit at apologies, and there was very little that he recalled with regret, but he saw her expression. He set the cup down, swallowing the bitterness of the wine. "None of it would have happened if you'd left King's Landing with me. No Littlefinger; no Ramsey, none of it."

He stared at her, hoping she understood how much of a failure he felt because of it. She had been forced to become this because of his failure; he should have protected her, forced her to come away with him for her own good. Ah, by the seven fucking gods, was he feeling soft for her? It must be the wine...

Sansa reached out a gentle hand and laid it on his gloved fingers, resting on the table. "Without Littlefinger and Ramsey and the rest, I would've stayed a little bird all my life," she commented softly. She held his hand and his gaze for a long moment before withdrawing and standing. She didn't elaborate, but her expression said so much. She understood, she forgave him; she had survived and thrived because of it but didn't excuse what they had done to her. She wasn't a child anymore; she was a woman, and she was free of obligation to anyone or anything. She was fearless. It wasn't terror she felt looking at him now, it was kinship, a kinship at the loss of their innocence and at the betrayal of those closest to them; and deeper, just as she turned and strode away, there was a need for comfort and desire.

She didn't look back as she moved away through the crowd. As he watched her retreat, he felt a churning mass of emotion roiling in his gut. How could that one touch have made him feel like a weeping child?

How could that smile melt him into something gentle and human? He realized he wanted her, wanted to barrel after her and escape into the night outside and draw her to him and protect her from all that horror. He wanted to feel her touch again, let it heal something broken in them both. "Fuck," he muttered, grasping the wine ewer, only to discover it was empty. He pushed it aside in disgust. "Ah, fuck it, then."

He rose unsteadily to his feet and went after her.

Sansa waited for him by the stairs, the smallest smile gracing her lips. “I wondered if you would catch on.” She turned, heading up the stairs, hips swaying enticingly. “Come on. Let’s get away from the noise and chaos. I would rather have you to myself.”

Up through the stairs and hallways, she led him right to her door, pushing it open. The fire was thoughtfully built up, making the room quite warm by comparison with the cold hallway. “This is much better, don’t you think?” she asked, turning towards him. She was well aware of his fear of fire, though a controlled fire in a fireplace was far less threatening, and she stood with it to her back, reaching out to him.  
Sandor stood in warm light of the room, blinking. It was the master chambers, but Sansa was Lady of Winterfell; of course she would have given the rooms as the leader of House Stark. He gave a quick nod. She was smiling again, a smile as welcoming as her open arms. Gods, she was a vision, like a goddess or one of those damsels from the stories she used to be so fond of. Somehow his little songbird had broken her golden cage and flown to her freedom.

“As talkative as ever, I see,” she said, blue eyes twinkling at him as she stepped forward to complete the distance, clasping his hand in hers and drawing him closer. “I have missed you, Sandor. I spent far more time thinking of you than might be thought proper for a lady.”

He frowned at her, wondering if she was teasing him. Her proximity to him made his body react in an unpredictable way. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself, but his lust was not so easily dismissed.

She kept her gaze locked on his, blue meeting on grey in a perfect storm of want. Her hands slid from his, caressing gently along his aching arms and shoulders, clasping around the back of his neck. His height made her stand on her toes to reach him, drawing him down into a kiss he was ill-prepared for. This first kiss was clumsy on both of their parts, though it took very little effort to smooth it out. Her silken tongue tangled with his, a move that made him growl softly. He nipped at her lips hungrily, cupping her face in his still-gloved hands.

She breathed his name, her sweet voice caressing each syllable. He so rarely heard his given name. Most people called him “dog” or “hound”. More polite people simply called him “Clegane”. To hear his first name uttered in such a way seemed an impossibly intimate thing to him. “Little bird,” he whispered against her lips, voice low and rough. “My little bird.”

“Yours,” she agreed, tilting her head back as his kisses drifted lower, over the sensitive skin of her neck. Nimble fingers loosened the clasps holding her high collar closed, allowing him to feast as he willed. “Only yours.”

A ferocious, primal instinct rose up within him as he held her face to his own. The taste of her sweet mouth and effects of the wine drove him on with each vibrant gasp. The sudden frenzy of realizing they were alive, that they had survived the frozen onslaught of the dead made each pulse of blood thunder through their veins. She wanted him, needed him, and he could just barely admit that he needed her, too, with a desperation that made him ache.

She gave a soft cry when his kisses strayed along her collarbone. In comparison to the softness of his lips, his beard was rough against her skin, the contrast delightful. Every touch was exquisite and she grew anxious for more. She had wanted him for so long and she had been patient for too long. She took a step back, fingers swiftly undoing the laces of his doublet. She tugged his gloves off, twining her fingers with his. “I’m done waiting, Sandor.”

He growled, as eager to remove her garments as she was to remove his. He had to see her bare skin, had to touch her! He gathered her necklace in one hand, the circle lying flat on his palm. "You have no need of chains, Lady Stark," he quipped as he began to remove it.

“And you have no need of armor, Ser Clegane.” She placed two fingers over his lips before he could protest her use of the word. “I don’t care if you’ve taken a knight’s vows or not. You’re *my* knight.” She allowed him to remove her necklace, followed quickly by her dark gown. Using his shoulders for balance, she stepped out of the puddle of clothing. Clad in only her shift and smallclothes, she stood on her toes, taking his face in both hands and drawing him down into a long, hungry kiss.

He groaned around the kiss, letting his studded doublet fall back from his arms, then unstrapped his belt to let it fall, too. He kicked off his boots and struggled with his breeches lace, snarling with frustration. He wanted to tear the shift from her body, bend her over the foot of the fur-draped bed and go at her, to ravish her like the beast he was always made out to be.

Sansa caught his face once more, and showered him with kisses, murmuring sweet nothings against his cheeks. Suddenly Sandor stepped back, chest heaving with the effort, shaking his head. "No," he muttered, "No. Not like this. You deserve better than this..."

“I deserve better than what?” she demanded softly. “I deserve better than to have a man that protected me and fought in battle to defend my home make love to me? I deserve better than the man I love?”  
Her eyes widened and she looked down, cheeks turning pink at the realization that her words had gotten away from her. She had not meant to confess such feelings so quickly. But the events of the past few days had affected her so deeply that she was still overwrought and speaking her mind without consideration.

"Love?" Sandor blinked as he watched her blush. He staggered back and slumped into the sturdiest chair in the room, abruptly derailed from his animal lust. "What would I know about love? I've never felt it. I told you before; I'm a hateful, mean fucker and nothing more. Is that what you love?" he asked in anguish. "Protected you? Fought to defend your home? Do you know what I did last night, Lady Stark? I wasn't protecting and defending fucking Winterfell--I was a bloody fucking coward, is what! The dead came at us and there was no defeating those numbers, not even with dragonglass. And when the fire came, from the sky and from the witch, from everywhere, even that couldn't kill the undead fuckers, and I--I--" He lapsed into despair, thinking of what he had almost done to her in blind lust.

“You listen to me, Sandor Clegane.” She strode over to him, leaning on the arms of the chair and looming over him as much as any person with her stature could loom over someone of Sandor’s impressive height. “You did fight them. If you hadn’t, you’d be dead. Cowards don’t live through battles like that. The fire is what you fear the most and you knew about the trenches and the plan to light them, but you fought by the front gates anyway. You saved Arya inside the keep, you and Beric. The only reason the Night King is dead is because of Arya and Arya was only alive to do it because of you.” She paused to take a breath, eyes crackling with the firelight. “I will not have you talk about yourself that way in front of me, do you hear me?”

Silenced, he nodded. "All right, I won't, then," he muttered. "But you do deserve better than some drunken fucking with the likes of me." He frowned. "I'm not a lover, little bird; there's never been a woman willing to bed me without payment, and even then--" he paused, clearing his throat. "This isn't a story, and I'm not one of those cunt knights, either. Never was and never will be. But with you--" he continued softly, "I want to be gentle. I want to try.”

“You’ve never been given a chance to be a lover, that’s not your fault. I haven’t either.” Her voice softened for him, taking his hands and tugging on them to prompt him to stand. “We’ll learn together.” Slender hands crept under the hem of his shirt, fingertips ghosting along his skin as she lifted it up and off of him. Even with all covering removed, he was still an intimidating figure. His skin bore deep scars, old wounds that had all failed to kill him. She ran her fingers along each one. Those closer to her eye-level were graced with soft kisses, as though sweetly praising him for having survived them all.

He shivered as her attention sent pleasure snaking like lightning across his skin down to his still-captive cock. Carefully he lifted her shift off and let it drift down to the floor like a settling mist, all the while looking into her shining blue eyes. He ran his rough hands over her smooth, pale shoulders, her arms, to her hands still tracing his scars. He tilted her head up to his again, drank in her unafraid gaze, and kissed her as tenderly as he could, again and again.

She breathed his name between kisses, hands slipping around him to caress his back, equally as littered with scars as his chest. Up, over his shoulder blades and back down, she let her palms and fingers worship his strength, the power coiled in his every muscle. “You are as close to the Warrior brought to life as I could ever hope to see,” she whispered. “And I believe you are just as capable of being gentle with those you love.”

Encouraged, he continued planting gentle kisses across her jaw and down her neck, relishing the sounds she made as he nuzzled the hollow of her throat. He held her to him, with a hand on the small of her back as his other hand found one of her breasts. He cupped it, feeling the comfortable weight of it in his palm. He found her nipple, raised and hard, and brushed his fingers over it as she squirmed against him, gasping.

She arched eagerly against him. “To my bed… please.” She pulled at his shoulders, dragging him back towards her fur-covered bed. Sitting on the bed, she spread her legs so that he was between them. They were still separated by his trousers and her smallclothes, but she desperately needed to feel his weight on top of her, to feel surrounded by his strength. “It’s all right, Sandor. You won’t be too heavy,” she assured him, lying back with her arms open, beckoning him to lower himself on to her.

''By the Seven, this way?'' he exclaimed, aghast. "You want to--look?" He hadn't even considered that she'd want to see his scarred face in a rictus of lust. He hadn't been exaggerating about having to pay to indulge this particular urge, so he rarely had, and even then he had always taken them from behind, quick and rough.

 _But that's why she wants to watch, you fucking idiot_ , he told himself. Theon had witnessed what Ramsey had done, and although Sandor hadn't pressed the man for details, he had no doubts as to the brutality of what had occurred. That this beautiful girl-- _not girl, woman_ , he corrected himself--chose him, of all ugly fuckers, for such intimacy was astounding enough, but that she wanted to see them together...well, he supposed that she had her reasons. He would do whatever she wanted.

“Yes,” she nodded, biting her lip with some uncertainty. She blinked up at him, struggling to put her reasoning into words. “Of course I want to look. Sandor,” she sighed softly, reaching up to cup his scarred cheek. “I love you. That means all of you. I want to know that it’s you within me. You and not-“ she gulped slightly, “-not anyone else. Just you. I need to know that it’s you.”

She was unsure if it would make any sense to him. Yes, he said he’d heard she’d been “broken in rough” as he put it, but she doubted he knew the extent of what Ramsey had done to her. Sometimes she still felt Ramsey’s breath on the back of her neck and it was enough to send her fleeing out of bed to vomit in the nearest receptacle. “I need… someone I can trust to help me learn what this is supposed to be like. I trust no other man but you.”

Sandor had serious doubts that he was the proper one to teach her what this was supposed to be like, but he understood her meaning. Moving back, he held her gaze as he undid his breeches, and slowly and deliberately drew them off.

Licking her lips nervously, she sat up a little to watch him, eyes going round when she finally saw him fully unclothed. She had been prepared for his scars and the overall size of him, but she had not expected just how large he was in other ways. “Oh my,” she breathed. “May I… may I touch you?”

Not trusting himself to answer coherently, he just nodded, standing as still as he could.

She sat up straight, hands on his hips to steady herself. Carefully, she curled her fingers around the base of his cock, not surprised that she could not quite grip him all the way around. The skin was very hot to the touch and she could feel the blood pulsing through him. Letting out the breath she’d been holding, she drew her hand down along his shaft. He was unlike anything she’d ever felt; the skin was silky soft but the flesh it covered was hard as stone. His foreskin was fully pulled back, revealing the sensitive head. A clear drop of pre-seed formed at the tip and she instinctively used her thumb to smear it away, massaging him very gently.

He groaned a deep rumble of pleasure at her touch on his too-swollen cock and he balled his fists at his sides with the effort to stay steady. Her fingers looked so slender against the length of him...he wondered what it would feel like if she kissed him there, or licked him with that pretty pink tongue of hers...and what the inside of her might feel like. The intrusive thoughts made his cock even stiffer, twitching in her inquisitive hand.

The sensation of him trembling against her touch gave her courage. She stroked him up and down gently, not wanting to overwhelm him. She’d heard of what men liked women to do sometimes, using their mouths. Shae had told her about it. She’d always thought it sounded distasteful before. But here and now, with Sandor’s cock throbbing in her hand, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Before she could lose her nerve, she leaned forward and slid her tongue slowly across the tip.

Sandor's entire body shuddered and he wound his fingers through the coppery cascade of her hair to steady himself. The sensation was wholly unexpected; the intensity was far greater than even what touching himself could produce. It was going to be a challenge to contain himself if Sansa continued this way.

She could feel as well as hear the low groan that rumbled from his chest. The sound seemed to travel right to her core, making her moan softly. She dipped her head, licking a long stripe along the underside of his cock, flicking her tongue over the tip. Taking the plunge, she carefully eased her lips around the head, careful to keep her teeth away from his skin. She wasn’t sure if this was right, but she was very sure that he enjoyed it either way.

What surprised her was that she was enjoying this as well. To know that she had this sort of power over a man who was counted as one of the most ferocious warriors in all of Westeros; to know exactly how much this man wanted her was thrilling. She even liked how his fingers combed through her hair, tugging ever so gently.

Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, he inhaled deep. He couldn't help panting in his efforts to pace himself: Sansa wasn't deep on his length, but it didn't matter. He kept his hands in her hair but let her take the lead. He savored the thrumming sensations up and down his cock; again he contemplated if her cunt was as good or better. Shaking away the thought, he looked down at her, meeting her bright eyes locked on his face. That sight only increased his pleasure, and he agonized over the decision to simply succumb to the end or withdraw and sink himself into her to finish.

She pulled back slowly, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock. She looked up at him, drawing a deep breath when she saw the naked lust in his eyes. Wordless, she straightened and laid back on the bed. Lifting her hips up, she was able shimmy out of her smallclothes so that she was finally naked before him. Her skin was lily pale but for the pink tips of her breasts and the soft patch of red hair between her legs. Even in the low light, he could see the pink folds of her sex glistening with wetness.

Clamping a hand around his cock, he moved forward, bringing the tip to stroke those petal-soft folds from top to bottom repeatedly. She was sopping wet, and it was maddening to go slow, but he refused to hurt her as he knew he would if he just shoved his way into her. Her hips lifted to him with each pass; he answered her moans with his own until he was certain he could control his entry. Carefully, gently, he pressed against her opening, easing the head of his cock into her. His balls were heavy and solid, aching to slam against her soft flesh as he entered her. Grunting with effort, he went slow as she sheathed him, warm and wet and welcoming.

“Sandor…” she exhaled his name in a long breath, small fingers digging into his shoulders for purchase. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back, arching against him eagerly. “Gods, you feel good,” she panted softly. He filled her so completely, every inch of him buried deep inside of her. “Be still… just a moment…” she whispered once he was fully seated inside of her. She knew it had to be difficult for him, even she was having trouble remembering to be slow with him. She softened her request for a pause with kisses along the scars on his neck, up to his jawline.

As requested, he rested inside her, leaning over her on his forearms. At that position he could reach her face, and he brushed and stroked her hair as it draped on the furs beneath her. She was radiant in her pleasure, and the bite of her nails on his back was exquisite in its little pain. He could feel the tight strain of the muscles in his back, of his legs; he knew he wouldn't last much longer.

Once she felt that she could withstand any friction, she slid her hands down his body, nails scratching lightly. Once she reached his hips, she gently guided him back and then forward again. The sensation made her cry out in ecstasy, her hips canting up to welcome the tender intrusion. “It’s all right… “ She moaned, as much to herself as to him. There was no pain in this at all; only aching, amazing pressure and pleasure. “You won’t hurt me… do as you will,” she said, looking up at him. Somehow she knew that he wouldn’t let go and take her as they both wanted unless he was given very clear permission.

He needed no further urging; her hands and hips were enough for him to move with her. He pushed away from her, onto his palms, and rocked against her, steadily thrusting in a growing frenzy. Growling, he gave in to the clench of his restrained muscles as the rush took him, and he cried out with her as he burst in wave after wave of searing lust.

Clinging to him, Sansa found her own peak, her insides gripping and pulling at him as her muscles tightened. Tears slipped from her eyes and for a moment, she felt she couldn’t breathe; not because of his weight on top of her or from any pain. She felt sated in a way she never had before, sated, loved, and cherished. Sandor may not have said any words of love to her, but he almost didn’t have to. She could feel it in the heat of his skin and answering passion in his eyes.

He searched her face for any sign of pain or fright, and found instead satisfaction and...joy? Her tears were joyful and triumphant, and he felt a weary relief that he hadn't harmed her. Leaning on one arm, he reached beneath her hips and shifted her beside him as he rolled onto the bed next to her. He held her to him, cradled in one arm, while they were still locked together. His vision blurred, and he was surprised to find his own face wet with tears he hadn't realized he was shedding.

“I love you,” she whispered against his skin, smoothing his hair back from his face, thumbs wiping the tears away.

A cool breeze blew from the window, making the candlelight stutter. He shivered lightly, the wetness on his face growing cold. One by one the candles blew out, making the room darker and darker, until there was nothing but black. More coldness dripped onto his face and he hastened to wipe it away. He blinked, unable to see anything. Every part of him felt cold and he trembled with it, reaching out to try to find Sansa’s warmth.

His hand met nothing, and his eyes flew open. His vision was blurred and he drew gloved fingers over his wet eyelids, blinking. The reek of wet dog and rotting straw assailed his nose, and there was a drumming in his ears. His head felt stuffed with wool--after-effects of the wine, no doubt. His surroundings swam into view even as he wished they wouldn't.

He was lying in the corner of the kennels in a pile of hay, and the melting sleet was dripping on his face in the dim light of dawn. The empty wine ewer was propped by the wall, abandoned when he had stumbled out to piss out his bitterness and relieve his bladder. He was aware of another cooling warmth in his lap, and groaned. "Ah, fuck me!" he swore in disgust.

 


End file.
